Stats Are National Power

Professor Pavic had hooked every student in the room with a jaw-dropping magic demonstration, but the rest of the period was, regrettably, nothing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠but dry and pedantic theory.

Visualization this, residual mana in the atmosphere that—one bit of hand-waving abstraction after another.

The students who had assumed that a demonstration meant a practicum was surely coming, and that they would soon be casting magic themselves, ran into reality before long and sank into looks of pure defeat.

I was, of course, one of them.

Still... it's not like I can't follow any of it.

Complicated theory, and no need to take notes—Professor Pavic had meant exactly what he said. Boiled down to three lines, it came to this. First, to cast a spell you needed a precise intention to recite it, and a clear visualization of the result. Second, the essence of magic might be bending the laws of the world to suit your will, but creating something from nothing was impossible. Third, which was why a casting had to draw either on the residual mana dissolved in the air or the earth, or on the internal mana mages stored up inside their bodies.

That about covered it.

...That was three lines, right?

Anyway.

And so Professor Pavic's class came to an end: one splendid spell demonstration, followed by an hour and fifty minutes of mind-numbing theory.

A textbook case of a dragon's head on a snake's tail. Peak boredom.

After lunch, there was one more class to sit through.

Two whole subjects in a single day!

Heavens. Was this paradise?

From the vantage of someone who had survived twelve years of South Korea's merciless exam hell, this was the sweetest of sweet deals. Was this even allowed? It felt like the sort of schedule that ought to spawn a newspaper editorial titled The Empire's Newest Mages: Are We Sure This Is Fine?

"Don't you think? Two classes a day—are we even going to learn anything?"

"Th-that... Anastacia, you must have... l-lived really hard, really busy, back at the convent..."

I'd brought it up with Olivia over lunch, and that was the answer I got. Puzzled, I asked again.

"Huh? Me? Why?"

"Two classes is... s-six hours... Wh-where in the world does anyone study... six whole hours a day..."

"Eh?"

Olivia looked at me with eyes brimming with pity and sympathy, then reached out and gave my hand a firm, gentle squeeze.

"...???"

"I-I had lessons at home too, ever since I was little... but even at the longest it was two or three hours... H-hang in there..."

"No, wait—I'm the weird one?"

...The conclusion was that I was the weird one.

This was a medieval fantasy world. Commoners went out to the fields at sunrise and came home at sunset. Nobles ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠were buried in estate management, banquets, hunts, and hearing petitions. At most, a couple of hours a day belonged to study.

Unless you were some renowned scholar who lived and breathed books, a researcher shut up in a mage tower who lived and breathed and breathed magic, or a monk holed up in a monastery scriptorium reading and copying from dawn to dusk, who on earth would study letters for that long?

...That was Olivia's explanation.

Hm. Fair enough.

I probably shouldn't say it was a European-style game, so of course the course load was light. If it had been a homegrown Korean title, I might have been packed into a full twenty-one credits with no room to breathe.

On a second look, this place was heaven itself.

Anyway!

Lunch finished, we headed back to the classroom building.

The lecture hall was the same grand hall as before. The course was called Understanding Spells.

Right on the hour, a kindly-looking middle-aged woman came in through the front door.

Her dress was neat and severe: a colorless formal uniform beneath a black faculty cloak, her hair drawn up and bound without a single stray strand. On looks alone she seemed terribly strict, but her expression was nothing but soft, and the faint lines at the corners of her mouth only deepened the gentle impression.

"We'll begin. I am Mila Goya, professor of Understanding Spells."

Her voice was pleasant too, softly breathy, easy on the ears. And I'd just eaten, so sleep was already creeping in...

"You all saw the Ignis spell Professor Pavic cast this morning in Understanding Magic, didn't you? This period, each and every one of you will cast that spell yourselves, so pay attention. Understood?"

Sleep creeping in... sleep... gone in a flash!

I looked around. Every student's eyes were shining. I blinked and sat up straighter myself.

"Before that, let's briefly touch on the components of a spell. When you work magic—that is, when you cast—what do you need? Anyone who knows the answer?"

After a brief silence and a round of reading the room, a student seated toward the front raised a hand.

"Uh... mana?"

"A good answer. Anyone else?"

Professor Goya nodded lightly and looked over the class again. Hands rose here and there as people wondered whether they'd been the one called on.

"The trigger word."

"A magic circle...?"

"You need a mage!"

"All right. We've had a variety of answers, and every one of them can be considered correct in some respect."

"There's an old saying: 'Where there are a hundred mages, there are also a hundred ways to cast a spell.'"

As she went on, Professor Goya drew from her robes a slender wooden stick like a conductor's baton.

"Now. Does anyone know what this is?"

"A wand!"

"Yes, that's right. Some mages use a wand when they cast. And this time—does anyone know what this is?"

She snapped her fingers with a crisp little sound, and a large wooden rod appeared in midair and settled into her grip. It looked, unmistakably, like a curtain rod.

"A staff!"

"It's a staff."

"Yes. Correct."

And so she stood with a wand in her left hand and a staff in her right.

"Wand and staff. Most mages cast using one of these two tools. An implement that serves as the intermediary between our bodies and magic when we cast—we call that the spell's focus, or its medium."

Boring. And pedantic...

"The stick in your hand is not the only medium a spell can have. The trigger word we recite as we cast, and the magic circles we draw to amplify or alter a spell's effect, can all be considered kinds of medium. The nomadic elf mages of the eastern wilds traditionally cast through song. In that case, the melody and the lyrics are the spell's medium."

With that, the professor swept her gaze across the students, meeting their eyes one by one, then clapped once to gather their attention.

"All fifty-six of you freshmen in this class will, by the end of the semester, have prepared a spell medium of your own, in a manner that suits you. You may craft your own wand or staff, or you may try Words of Power, like the famous Davion of the Voice. Creating a medium of your own and casting the basic spells with proficiency—that is this semester's final assignment."

At the words final assignment, every brain in the room kicked into high gear. I could feel the concentration draw taut. I wasn't uninterested myself, but... surviving today and tomorrow mattered more.

Tonight through tomorrow morning was the crisis point of this loop. Would the culprit show up to reclaim the black magic tome? Would they try to kill me?

"Now! That's a story for the distant future, so we'll set it aside for the moment and try casting today without the aid of a medium—just as Professor Pavic recited the spell. The limbs of our bodies have served as conduits of magic since before recorded history began..."

I glanced at Olivia in the seat beside me, listening to the professor with rapt attention. Come to think of it, when she'd picked up the luggage, Olivia had stretched both arms out and used a weight-lightening spell.

In this world's rules, casting without a staff must have been the default.

"...and that will do. All right, everyone—extend one hand forward and close your eyes."

Ah. I'd missed the explanation.

I couldn't let it show. Calmly, I extended my right arm and shut my eyes.

"Now breathe in slowly, and out, and imagine the mana dissolved in the air around your body gathering upon your hand. You may picture tiny grains, or a continuous flow like a current. Draw it in your mind in whatever way suits you."

Just as Professor Goya said, I breathed slowly and tried to imagine mana gathering on my palm.

It wasn't especially hard. You know how it is—the veteran instincts of a modern person. Even Teacher Einstein said it, didn't he? Particles and waves, something-something... wave-particle duality, something-something... I didn't really know what any of that meant, but anyway. Whether mana was grains or ripples didn't matter. So long as it gathered properly, that was enough.

"...Has everyone pictured it? Then it's time to exchange the mana gathered on your hand for a burning flame. Once again, your imagination is free. Any method will do—picture a scene in which you kindle fire through mana. The shape and color of the flickering flame, the heat as it burns, drawing nearer, clearer and clearer."

...I can see it. I can see it. A blaze roaring hot enough to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠make you blurt, A Fire Release like this, in a place with no fire?

Even an arts-and-PE major like me knows the three elements of combustion. Oxygen was plentiful, the spark was magic's job, and if the fuel held out, you could make as much fire as you wanted. And mana was exactly what played the part of that fuel, wasn't it?

Easy, right?

"If you've succeeded in picturing it clearly, it's time to recite the trigger word. Don't forget Professor Pavic's class. What matters is will. You cast with your will inside the spell. 'Ignis.' Those of you who are ready may cast freely."

I gathered every scrap of focus and poured in as much will as I could muster. Was there another student in this room as desperate to learn this magic as I was? I might be dead within the day. Less than half of day two of my second loop was left.

I would learn this magic.

And I would survive.

That was the only thought in my head.

"Ignis!"

I shouted the spell with that wish behind it and opened my eyes.

A fireball the size of a watermelon burned fiercely on my palm, shedding blue light.

Oh. What? Do I actually have a talent for magic...?

Up on the platform, Professor Mila Goya stood with her mouth hanging open, looking back and forth between my face and the blue fireball.

...She isn't sizing it up against my head, is she?